


Spark

by devera



Category: The Order 1886
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-01
Updated: 2015-03-01
Packaged: 2018-03-15 17:45:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,912
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3456173
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/devera/pseuds/devera
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Nikola is a man of learning. And euphemisms.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Spark

**Author's Note:**

> Ok so I am playing The Order 1886 through for the second time in less than 48 hours and I just have to give in to my sudden and massive fancrush on the game in general and Galahad in particular. 
> 
> And I totally own that while all the UST is really with the awesome women in this game, I tend to prefer to write differently, and that scene in the elevator in Chapter 2 was just so adorable, I couldn't resist a little something in another direction.

Nikola is an intelligent man, a man of learning and invention. He has always prided himself on his rationality, his ability to peer into the unknown and uncover the truth of the universe in the workings of its sciences, pulling back its curtains to illuminate its secrets. He has no interest in illusion, only what is real. It does not become him, therefore, to harbour any self-delusion either. After all, truth is truth. A man, so long as he chooses to call himself such, cannot discover one and ignore others as he pleases. So in the spirit of the very truth Nikola pursues, he will not claim that a certain Knight's attention means nothing to him. 

Quite the opposite, in fact. He might just as easily try to deny Newton's Third Law as to deny his foolish, impossible attraction. For all actions, there is an equal and opposite reaction - the action of Galahad's mouth quirking into a smile that seems to say it is not the new weapon that pleases him so much as its maker, and Nikola's reaction; a spark that fires low in his gut, that flushes his skin warm and his palms clammy and leads to nights - days - of feverish invention, alone in his lab, merely so he may present something else to the man for the pleasure of that smile, that look.

No, Nikola is not an idiot. He is very well aware of what is going on. Galahad is a professional, a man of honour, and Nikola is a tongue-tied, eager puppy, a love-lorn suitor attempting to please the polite but ultimately disinterested object of his affections with not bouquets of flowers but a dazzling array of incendiary gifts, of the most beautiful and deadly armament his hands are capable of making. 

If there were an equation for it, if Nikola could solve it as one solves a problem, then perhaps he could stop it, find a way to counter it. It is an unbearable state. But it is the change in Galahad, the transmutation from soldier to lover that so consumes Nikola. He will hand the man something, his latest trifle, and as Galahad receives it, his politenesses will slough from him like oil off water. When he looks at Nikola's inventions, when he lays his hands upon them, there is a light in his eyes that speaks not of blood and violence - although the things Nikola makes are certainly capable of that in the hands of a man like Galahad - but of wonder, of a silent kind of awe. 

His face, when Nikola looks at it in those moments, is beautiful. Perhaps it is ridiculous to describe such a steadfast man so, but Nikola cannot help it. He is drawn like metal to a lodestone. He cannot tear his eyes from him as Galahad grips and tests and inspects, as he hefts the latest handgun, or eases the stock of Nikola's newest rifle into the cradle of his shoulder, cocks it and narrows his eyes along the sight, shifts his weight and breathes out and then squeezes the trigger.

He has never, not once, missed a target, each shot placed neatly within the centre mark, until he is satisfied. Nikola watches, wrapt, and tries in vain not to imagine what those same hands may be capable of given a different task.

"Remarkable," Galahad murmurs, cradling the gun to his shoulder in such an intimate, familiar way it makes Nikola's skin itch. "Excellent work, Nikola." He straightens and lowers the stock from his shoulder, lays the weapon on its side and deftly unloads it, while Nikola watches his hands move and tries for a moment to recall what he was about to say.

"I thought you would like it," Nikola says, attempting to modulate his voice to some measure of professional interest where there is almost, in this moment, none. Galahad lays the rifle down on the table in front of them.

"It seems made just for me," he observes and there is something new in his voice, a variable Nikola hasn't heard before. Nikola frowns, trying to follow the trace of it.

"It will serve the brothers well," he agrees. "It's lighter than the M82, with a faster reload, and -"

"I know what you're doing, Nikola," Galahad interrupts, but softly, and Nikola stops and frowns again.

"But of course," he agrees again. "You asked me to see if I could not improve upon the Company's design..."

Galahad lays a distracted hand on the rifle's barrel. Nikola glances down and wonders if he can feel through his gloves the warmth from the recent expenditure of energies in the barrel.

"How old do you believe me to be, Nikola?"

Nikola glances back up again, surprised by this strange shift in topic.

"I... cannot say, Sir Knight. Your Order is long lived, by most measures."

"Four hundred and seventeen," Galahad provides, turning to look at Nikola. "Give or take a few months."

Nikola blinks, unsure of the information's relevance to the matter at hand. "Well, that is surely..."

"Do you think," Galahad says lowly, but there is no quality of threat in his voice, only a strange waver. "That in so many years, I would not have learned the nature of men?"

Nikola is not sure what they are discussing any more, but something compels him past all reason to say, "It is not the nature of _other_ men that interests me."

It is a bald statement, bold; Nikola can see it in the way Galahad's pupils dilate, in the way he holds silent for a long, weighted moment.

"I have come to know my own nature as well," he says finally. "Nikola, it is unwise to be so obvious."

There is no pretending they are not having this conversation now. Nikola knew the time would come; he had only hoped it not be for a long time. But he sets his jaw. He is committed, and while he may not himself bear the arms he designs, he possesses his own measure of courage all the same. 

"If I were a cautious man, Sir Galahad, I would not have accepted the Order's offer of employment." He hesitates, acknowledging to himself that beyond this moment is the perilous unknown. He forges ahead regardless. The unknown has never held any danger for him. "Such things are frowned upon, in the brotherhood?"

Galahad's mouth twitches. "Only insofar as discretion is required."

"Then your objections are personal," Nikola concludes, and although he is sure it does not show in his expression, he feels himself shoring up against the inevitable answer.

"I did not say," Galahad says a little roughly, "that I had any objections, only that it is best to be cautious."

It takes Nikola a moment, a ridiculously long moment, to understand what Galahad has just said.

"Oh," he breathes, startled into a sudden uncharacteristic lack of order to his thoughts. "Well, yes, I can be- That is to say, you need not concern yourself that I-"

"For God's sake," Galahad sighs, and there is a another smile upon his face, one Nikola has never seen before but that makes him feel like he is suddenly filled with light. He blinks again and he can feel Galahad's hand curling around the strap of his apron, can feel him pulling. And then he can feel the brush of his moustache upon his upper lip, and - Oh. Oh.

Galahad kisses gently, sweetly. Nikola had not even dared imagine - or, well, perhaps he had but it had never been like this, and now Nikola knows where the light originates.

"Not that discreet," Galahad murmurs, laughter in his voice as he begins to pull away, but Nikola is not done with the sensation yet, and chases after him, committing more fully this time, his momentum transferring to Galahad, who rocks back with a huff of a laugh into Nikola's mouth but who does not otherwise object. Nikola would smile in kind, but he is far too consumed with the soft parting of Galahad's lips, of the solid feel of his body under him, taking his weight, and the feel of his hands upon him, gripping and holding him in place.

"You're a whip of a thing," Galahad breathes, and his hands moving upon Nikola's body are some kind of minor revelation.

"You should know, Sir Galahad," Nikola says unsteadily, trying to focus enough to speak actual words, when all he truly wants to do is sigh and groan and make sounds of further unequivocal encouragement. "That the size of a thing does not necessarily equal its mass."

"I wouldn't know about it," Galahad laughs again, pure amusement, and then his hand finds its way between Nikola's legs. "Although you may be right, at that, my friend."

Nikola gasps in a breath and shudders from his toes up. 

"I'm always right," he gasps again, rocking up into that confident grip and, discretion, he thinks, there was some discussion of discretion a moment ago. "But theories, in the scientific spirit, must be- must be tested, you understand."

Disappointingly, Galahad's hand slips away to grip his hip. Less disappointing is the faint tremor in his touch as he shifts back to press his forehead against Nikola's. His eyes close and for a moment Nikola can see the sweep of his lashes against his cheek as if his features are under a microscope.

"Tested," Galahad repeats shakily, and swallows. "Far be it from me to stand in the way of progress, then. But I am not- My presence is required-"

Nikola kisses him one final time, hard because he may, and fast because it is the only way to convince himself to let go and step back. He puts some little distance between them then, before Galahad may even return the kiss, enough that he will have to move again if he wants to touch. Galahad remains where he is, watching, and that light is back in his eyes, that one Nikola thought was for his inventions but sometimes hoped was instead for their creator.

"Of course," Nikola agrees primly, tugging his apron back into place, although he can do nothing for the unseemly tenting of it at the front. Galahad has the good manners, or perhaps the sense of self preservation, not to glance down. "You know where you can find me, then, Sir, after."

Galahad blinks, and his shoulders relax minutely as he smiles again.

"That I do," he says and straightens. Nikola hadn't realised but in their pursuit of Newton's Law, the bench behind Galahad had been taking much of his weight. "In the meantime, a field test? In the interests of science, of course."

He is holding up Nikola's new rifle, and Nikola feels himself smile, satisfied in a way he can't yet describe but anticipates quantifying at full length some time later.

"Naturally," Nikola agrees. "You can give me a full and thorough report when you return."

Galahad stows the rifle against his back, snorting as he does.

"You may be brilliant, my friend," he says lightly, but the gentle, meaningful squeeze of his hand on Nikola's arm as he steps past him belies his tone. "But no one should ever accuse you of subtlety."

And then he is striding away. Nikola turns to watch him go, as he usually does, smiling.

To Hell with subtlety; it is discovery that Nikola craves. He is after all a man of a voracious appetite for learning.


End file.
